Wednesday, 18 June 2014

The spice-seller

In some birth nested into eternity
I was a woman, and I like to think -
of noble birth, but that’s perhaps conceit;
I only know that a handsome gypsy
beckoned, and I crossed a placid sea
and sailed to a lavish stone built city
the colours of golden dust and ashen pink
and sat in a dim shop in the midday heat.
Cumin, cinnamon, saffron piled high,
the perfumes gently suffused the entire lane
and drew peasants and men from rich households.
“Eyes deceive, but the nose cannot lie,”
I called out to each passer-by to buy
the best spices that money could obtain
and they gladly gave their gold for my gold.

Deep within some dusty memory archive,
that voice still echoes as if she were alive.

A dear friend told me a beautiful story, and this verse kind of grew from there.


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